Tomorrow's Yesterday
by somethingsdont
Summary: EC. “Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.” —Albert Einstein
1. Yesterday

A/N: I seem to have a problem writing anything from a third person's point of view. I tried, but it turned second person anyway. Also, I think the general timeline of this story might be off by a couple of weeks, but I doubt anybody would've noticed if I hadn't just mentioned it now. ;) Enjoy the ramblings of my muse!

* * *

The pain from the death of a loved one has an odd way of burrowing itself deep into the crevice of your heart. You understand this feeling as you kneel in front of your sister's grave. A full year after the sniper's bullet tore through Marisol's flesh, the pain still persists as freshly as it had that day. If anything, it has intensified; the initial numbness has worn off, and the ache in your heart feels like an open wound. 

Staying busy had helped to cover the hurt, but the pain never rang back gentler when your mind wandered again to her. It is days like today, when you allowed yourself to be immersed with the memory of her, that brought you to your knees.

The day is beautiful, the sky clear, the clouds wispy, a gentle breeze keeping the air fresh. You resent this weather for not mourning your loss with you.

Your parents and your other sisters have already come and gone, as well as a few friends you remember from the hospital and the funeral a year ago. You had seen Horatio too. When he had arrived, you had given him some alone time with her. He had appeared distressed, which was rare for him, but he hadn't even taken the day off work like you had. You wonder how much your sister's death has affected him and if it even comes close to how much it has affected you.

You doubt very much that anybody else feels the way you do, because you had been the first one to arrive in the morning and now the last one remaining.

Everyone else in your life, you guard with your mind and your body. Marisol, however, you had always guarded with your heart. As a child, she had always been the first to come to your defense when you got into trouble and the last to pin the blame on you when a baseball found its way through a neighbor's window.

"Mari," you murmur, fighting your tears.

You don't get out much more than that, because your voice trails off helplessly. A few deep breaths later, you recollect yourself enough to speak again.

"Mama was here, and Papi. So were Isabel and Valencia. They all think I'm crazy for sitting here and talking to you, but I think they're just scared of feeling your presence." You take another breath to calm your nerves. "You were torn so violently away from us, you know? It's too soon. The wounds are still too fresh." You swallow, the spoken words making this too real to handle. "I'm here though," you offer. "I'm trying my best to stay strong for them."

You look down at the ground, then up at the sky. You take a few moments to listen to the rustling of the trees, almost expecting Marisol's voice in reply.

"Isabel's expecting another baby," you say in an attempt at normalcy. "I didn't think she'd be ready so soon after the twins, but you know Izza." You smile sadly, wishing your unborn nephew or niece would get a chance to meet their late aunt. "Valencia got engaged. The wedding's this fall. She's going to be a beautiful bride." Your heart aches at the memory of Marisol and Horatio's wedding. You inhale shakily. "You would've been her maid of honor, just like at Izza's." You shiver at the thought. "They both think the world of you," you say softly. You close your eyes, unable to look at where you are any longer. "I think of you every day," you whisper, a solitary tear rolling down your face. You wipe it away with the back of your hand. "Te quiero, Mari."

You tense when you hear footsteps behind you. You turn your head to the noise. Your swollen heart catches in your throat when you see Calleigh standing there, wearing all black, half of her blonde hair tied back, a small bouquet resting in her hands.

You stand quickly and clumsily, an embarrassed flush creeping up your cheeks. You wonder how long she has been standing there and how much she's heard. You feel exposed and vulnerable at what she might have witnessed. For a moment though, you are glad it is her, instead of someone else you know, because after – or maybe _despite_ – everything the two of you have gone through, you can allow her this intimacy. You brush the caked dirt off your knees. You open your mouth but quickly close it again, finding yourself without vocal capabilities. You take a few steps toward her, but you stop long before you reach her, stalling because you haven't figured out what to say or how to say it.

Calleigh walks past you quietly and places the bouquet next to the other flowers. She touches the tombstone briefly, lightly fingering the engraved letters. She returns to where you had been kneeling and to your surprise, kneels down, facing the grave, and starts to speak, the same way you had moments before.

"Hey, Marisol," she starts softly, her voice ringing through the deserted graveyard. "I just came to say hi." She takes a deep breath. "You were taken way too soon and we all miss you very much." She pauses and glances up at you. "Especially Eric," she adds quietly.

Calleigh pats the ground beside her and motions for you to kneel next to her. You comply, but you misjudge the distance, and your hip touches hers. You consider moving away, but she doesn't notice or chooses not to react, so you stay still. In this position, the height difference is not as noticeable, and her shoulder rests only slightly below yours. She doesn't rush you. Instead, she waits for you to recover your voice and initiate conversation.

"I miss her so much," you hear yourself saying, your voice shaky. You laugh bitterly at your words, because nothing comes close to describing how much.

"I know, but Eric—"

"Don't tell me it'll get easier with time," you snap, "because that's a blatant lie."

She stays silent for a few moments, and you think that maybe those hadn't been the words she had wanted to speak. After all, she must understand loss far better than you do. You are about to apologize for your irrational outburst when she speaks again.

"The first time I met her, I thought she was your girlfriend," she admits quietly.

"I know," you reply with a small chuckle.

She frowns and turns to look at you. "How did you know?"

"Oh, come on," you say, hinting at obviousness. "I could tell you were jealous."

"I—" She turns away, a small smile hanging on her lips. "I was not," she denies half-heartedly.

You steal a quick glance at her. "I would've been," you say with a shrug, thinking of the kiss you had witnessed a week prior.

She swallows, undoubtedly catching your underlying meaning. "Eric—"

"It's okay," you say dismissively. "I get it. Work is work."

She is quiet for a long time, her eyes fixed forward. You try to read her intentions, but she's well-guarded, well-hidden and purposely evasive. You want to ask about Jake, but it's neither the time, nor the place, so you settle for a safer question.

"How long were you standing there?" you ask, pointing to the place where you had found her earlier.

"I don't know." She looks at you briefly, then turns away again. "A couple of minutes."

"You should've said something," you say, feeling embarrassed again.

"I didn't want to interrupt." She shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, her body stirring against yours. You curse the friction for making you nervous and forcing you to look away. "Sorry," she adds as an afterthought. You're not sure if she's apologizing for watching you uninvited or because she's sensed your nervousness at her movements.

The two of you stay there for what feels like two eternities. You are too acutely aware of her proximity. Internally, you debate whether her presence is a welcome one. A tiny voice adamantly tries to convince you that you want to mourn alone and that Calleigh is distracting you from a day that should be dedicated to Marisol only. Still, for the most part, you appreciate that she has remembered. You wonder if she's sensed your tension in the past few days.

Slowly, she stands up off the ground. You follow suit. On your way up, her elbow bumps into your head. She apologizes hastily and takes a few steps back. You mumble an incoherent, dismissive reply. For a moment, you sense that she is nervous, but almost as quickly as it had appeared, the nervousness is gone.

She clears her throat. "It's a nice day," she comments, looking up at the clear sky.

You watch her wait for your generic reply, unable to figure out how and when the relationship between the two of you had deteriorated to flat remarks about the weather. When you don't respond, she tries again.

"Ryan wanted to come too, but he was caught up in this case." She gives you a knowing smile. "We're a little low on manpower today," she says teasingly.

You frown. "If you're so backlogged, what are you doing here?" you ask, a little more accusatory than you had meant to.

"No guns to analyze," she replies immediately, too quickly, her smile disappearing.

"Okay," you say slowly, "but ballistics isn't the only thing you do around the lab."

She sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I'm tired, Eric," she says impatiently. "I'm allowed a short shift once in a while."

You take a deep breath to quell your approaching agitation. You know that Calleigh does not deserve your anger. "You're right. I'm sorry," you concede. You avoid her gaze, but you can still feel her eyes on you. "You should go home and rest, then," you suggest offhandedly. "You don't have to—"

"This is important to you," she interrupts, an edge of defensiveness still left in her voice. She stares at you pointedly. Her voice softens. "We're friends, remember?"

You consider the fine line between friendship and the purgatory in which the two of you stand. You nod solemnly. "Yeah, but you don't have to be here."

"I want to be here," she replies simply, and you think that this is probably the best argument you've heard all day. At that, she smiles, a mournful yet encouraging smile. "Tell me—" She takes another look at the tombstone. "Tell me your favorite memory of your sister."

You frown, considering her request. "I don't know." Images of Marisol at various stages of her life flash past you. "There are so many."

"Pick one," she urges softly.

"Okay." You take a breath, considering how to make sure she understood why this event in your childhood is so important to you. "I was eight. Marisol must've been almost fourteen. She took me swimming. She was the one who taught me how." You smile nostalgically. "She was sick the whole time you knew her, but she was a dolphin in her last life, I swear." You frown, trying to hide the ache in your chest. "She was so graceful in the water, Cal," you murmur, your voice pained.

She takes hold of your hands and squeezes them comfortingly. The gesture, mixed with the oncoming emotions, overwhelms you and you feel a stubborn tear rolling down your face. She lets go of one of your hands and brings her palm up to your cheek, wiping the stray tear away with the pad of her thumb. The intimacy physically hurts you, because you know that she cannot be yours. Not tonight, not ever. You know she has not come to tell you that she's changed her mind about professionalism at work or even that working in the homicide department of MDPD is the same as working with her every day in the lab – _that cocky bastard_. You feel guilty for even allowing your mind to wander to Calleigh's words and Calleigh's actions on the anniversary of your sister's death, but here she is, standing in front of you, her right hand cupping your cheek, her left hand intertwined with your right, still able to make your heart skip, still consuming your thoughts.

Sensing your discomfort, she drops both her hands limply to the side of her body.

You take a shaky breath. "We always had our little spot on the beach. It wasn't the smartest idea, looking back, because there were no lifeguards on that strip, but it was the freedom that counted then," you say with a tight, sad smile. "When we got there, we set down our towels and ran for the water. While she wasn't looking, I swam farther out than I was supposed to. She had warned me, but I had always figured that it was one of those big-sisterly things she was obliged to do."

"My brothers, too," Calleigh interrupts with a slight smile, rolling her eyes.

You shake your head. "None of my other sisters protected me like Marisol did." You steal a glance at her to make sure you haven't upset her with your impulsiveness. You haven't, so you continue your story. "About five minutes later, I felt this searing pain up my leg. My whole lower body went numb and I felt myself sinking so I started flailing around and screaming." You can still feel the panic from that day as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. You shrug it off. "Marisol swam over to me as quickly as she could and grabbed me around the chest. She had some difficulty, because I kept thrashing about in the water, but eventually, she managed to pull me to shore. I was coughing up water and everything." You swallow, feeling your throat unusually dry. "Marisol, she started crying. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. She held me and she cried. I kept apologizing to her, but she shook her head and held me tighter." You turn your head upward and close your eyes. You feel Calleigh's comforting hand on your arm. Keeping your eyes closed, you continue, "By then, the adrenaline was wearing off and my leg started hurting again. It turned out to be a jellyfish sting. She tried to carry me home on her back, but it was then that she realized that she had several stings up her leg as well and could barely walk. I don't even know how she managed to drag me to shore."

"I do," Calleigh supplies softly.

You open your eyes to look at her. Her green eyes are piercing. "I know the buoyancy of human bodies makes it so that they appear lighter in the water and adrenaline adds about thirty percent physical force to a person."

She seems amused at your response. "Spoken like a true CSI." She laughs. "Actually, I was going to say that she managed to carry you to safety because she loved you very much," she says with a squeeze of your arm.

You nod. Your 'thank you' catches in your throat. You swallow, still trying desperately not to cry. "Anyway, when our legs finally healed enough for us to walk, we left that strip of the beach for the last time. On our way home, just to make sure I knew she wasn't going to tolerate that again, she slugged me across the face."

Calleigh makes a sympathetic noise.

"It was no big deal. She was a good swimmer, but she still hit like a girl," you say with a small smile.

She returns your smile with one of her own and runs her hand up and down your arm. The image of a younger Marisol crying because she was afraid she'd lost you becomes too difficult to take, and a dry sob forces its way out from within your throat. You try to cover it up with a cough, but you know she's caught your despair.

"Eric, if there's anything I can do…" She trails off, knowing that the one thing that would alleviate your pain is the one thing that she cannot offer you.

"Nothing makes this easier," you whisper, afraid of what your voice would sound like if you spoke any louder.

She takes a moment to respond. "I'm here."

You nod in acknowledgement and try your best to reassure her with a smile. The two of you fall into silence again, you from lack of coherence and her out of politeness and patience. She allows you to be the first to break the silence this time.

"It's been a whole year, you know? It wasn't even like this with Speed." Another ache in your heart, but it rings weak compared to what the loss of Marisol can bring.

She studies you for a long time, listening to your deep, shaky breaths, watching your fidgety stance.

"You can cry," she whispers finally, taking a step toward you. You think that this is a strange thing to say, and even her permission does not open the floodgates to your tears. You hold them in, still.

She snakes her arm around your torso and grips you with a careful determination. You return the embrace tentatively, leaning down to bury your face into the crook of her neck. If the intimacy bothers her, she doesn't show it. The aroma that normally wafts from her with subtlety is even more intoxicating at this distance. For a brief moment, she is holding you up, not physically, but emotionally. The release is refreshing, but the tears do not come.

You pull away slightly from her, moving a strand of her silky hair to cover the place on her neck where your face had been moments before. Her grip loosens, but does not let go, keeping your hips inches from hers. You shake your head, trying desperately to shake the cloudy feeling that has recently been associated with Calleigh only. "I just feel like I have to be strong for my whole family, you know? My parents and my sisters lean on me for support. When they cry on my shoulder, I have to keep my own emotions in check. I have to be composed and offer the rational, soothing words when all I want to do is cry with them." You sigh, frustration mingling in the air between the two of you. "It's like I'm this fountain of rationality or something. I would do anything for my family, but sometimes I need a number to call or an apartment to go to at three in the morning." You pause, frowning slightly. "I need a constant in my life," you finish quietly, looking past her.

"I want to be your constant," she whispers, her voice betraying her desperation.

"You were," you say with a short, bitter laugh. You look into her eyes again, even though doing so hurts you. "You know you can't be that anymore." The sense of loss deep in your heart rivals even the feeling from precisely one year ago. It stings to hear the truth spoken from your own lips. The pain burns your throat.

"Nothing has to change," she says stubbornly, looking away.

"Everything's changing, Calleigh." You sigh in frustration. "Everything's _changed_."

"Where do we stand?" she asks, her eyes searching yours for unspoken answers.

The vulnerability of this exposure forces you to look away. "You tell me."

"I don't know." She looks at you again and half-shrugs. "You can call me at three in the morning," she offers. "Even drop by. I still live at the same place."

"And if you're not alone?" you ask dryly.

She frowns. "Hypothetically, if your girlfriend is staying over and _I_ show up at your door in the middle of the night, would you let me in?"

"Yeah, I guess." You pause, considering this angle. "But if my girlfriend hates you, that might be a problem."

"Jake doesn't hate you," she replies matter-of-factly.

The mention of Jake churns your insides. "Hypothetically," you say spitefully, mimicking her tone, "if Jake showed up at my girlfriend's door at three in the morning and wanted to cry into her arms, I'd slam the door in his face."

She pulls herself further away from your embrace. You notice her jaw clenching. For a moment, you think she is about to berate you, but she doesn't.

"I'm sorry."

Her apology surprises you. "What for?" you ask cautiously.

She shrugs. "You need me, and I'm not there."

"I don't need you." You are not aware of what you've said until the words have left your mouth. You feel her tense in your arms. You avoid her eyes and backtrack desperately. "I mean, I can find another constant." Mentally kicking yourself for your impulsive but defensive and dishonest responses, you laugh humorlessly. "What I mean to say is—"

"I know," she interrupts clumsily.

Awkwardly, you release her from your grip, not realizing until you've loosened your muscles how tightly they had been clenched. You take a few steps back and move your hand to the back of your head in an attempt to ease your discomfort.

"It's getting late," she says suddenly.

You nod slowly, reluctantly. "Yeah, you should probably go," you say, motioning toward the entrance of the cemetery.

She stays rooted to where she stands. She hesitates before speaking again. "Do you need a ride?"

"No, I'm staying until midnight." You had decided that when you had arrived this morning.

She takes another hesitant pause. Her uncertainty scares you. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

"I got over my fear of the dark when I was seven, Cal," you say sarcastically, even though you want to scream an affirmative response.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she repeats, a little more confidently this time.

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. "You have plans for the evening," you observe.

"I can call them off," she says hurriedly. "I didn't know you were going to be here until so late." She looks at you questioningly and frowns. "How do you know I have plans?"

"You always have plans these days," you reply, your words dripping with jealousy.

"I can stay, Eric," she offers quietly. You sense that this is the last time this proposition will leave her lips without a hidden meaning.

"I'll be okay, Calleigh," you reassure.

She nods, turns and walks slowly toward the exit.

"Thank you for coming," you call out after her.

She pivots to look at you. "I did it for Marisol," she replies softly.

You smile and look away. "I was thanking you on behalf of Marisol," you reply defensively, feigning ignorance.

She laughs. Her laughter eases your aching heart. Without realizing it, you hear a low laugh escape from your own lips. Your laughter sounds foreign to your ears, but the liberation is satisfying. When the laughter dies down, the two of you stare uncomfortably at each other until the awkwardness becomes unbearable. She turns around to leave again.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Eric."

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the two of you will return to work without a mention of tomorrow's yesterday: today. Nobody will ever know and nobody will ever guess. Calleigh has always been good with guarding her emotions, and you will just have to learn how. Today has made tomorrow infinitely more difficult. The knowledge of what could have been, what _would_ have been if professionalism and fear didn't get in the way, is too much to handle, especially on a day saved for mourning the death of your beloved sister.

You watch as she leaves the graveyard. She doesn't look back, not even once, and you consider how much that could reflect what will become of your relationship.

Hidden between the lonely tombstones and the decaying bouquets, today is a secret shared only with passed strangers.


	2. Tomorrow

A/N: I have a compulsive need to mess around with one-shots. If this addition takes away from the realism of the story, I'm sorry! But I just couldn't leave Eric like that.

* * *

The drive to Calleigh's apartment feels familiar, yet you can't shake the strange feeling at the pit of your stomach. You follow the instinctive turns – eight stop signs, five red lights – to her building. You manage to squeeze your car into a tight parking space, despite shaky hands on a sweaty steering wheel. Then you wait. You wait for your heart to stop pounding in your chest. 

A few hours ago, you had left the cemetery, where you had been visiting your sister's grave on the anniversary of her death. Calleigh's appearance there had left you with an oddly unsettled feeling. After she had left, it had been difficult to concentrate on much more than what her presence had meant, and you couldn't help but feel an immense hatred for Jake, who you knew she was going to spend the evening with. It was wildly unfair, you had decided. Calleigh deserved better. The worst part about the whole thing was that she seemed happy, satisfied at the very least, and it burned you up inside to know that Jake, of all people, could make her that. Seething, you had gone home for a snack and a quick shower, but the discomfort never left, always loomed in the air. Calleigh's words replayed in your mind.

_Nothing has to change_.

Minutes later, you had found yourself in your car, without a clear destination in mind. You had let your heart lead the way, which is why you find yourself in front of Calleigh's apartment. You know that there is the possibility that she has company, and at this hour, you can only think of one person. _That_ would be suicide. Still, you can't bring yourself to pull back out onto the street and return to another lonely, sleepless night. Where you're headed, you figure you'll be sleepless, but at least not lonely.

A split second before pulling the key out of the ignition, your eye catches the clock on the dashboard. It reads 2:52 a.m.

_You can call me at three in the morning. Even drop by._

_I still live at the same place._

You curse her for having added the last part. It reminds you how long you have not been here and how long ago you, in emergencies, had started asking Dan Cooper for a place to stay, instead of asking Calleigh for the couch that over the years, you had practically claimed as your own.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you stumble out of your car and to the front entrance of the apartment. The door is locked. You bring your fingertip to a little button labeled 307, but you cannot bring yourself to press it. Fortunately, someone from inside the building opens the door on their way out and you slip through.

You take the stairs up to the third floor, dragging your body. You are not sure if it is the fatigue or the nerves, but you feel a hundred pounds heavier than you actually are. The hallway on the third floor is poorly lit, but you manage to make it to her door. You hesitate again. You raise your hand, ready to knock, ready to accept whatever and whoever stood at the other side, but at the last minute, you cannot summon the courage to bring your knuckles to the wooden door. From beyond the door, you hear voices. Plural. You curse whatever higher power had arranged for this cruel twist of fate, and you know that you will have no choice but to make your way back home. Your curiosity gets the better of you, however, and you lean in to see if you can make out what those voices are saying, but you hear only muffled sounds. One of the voices gets louder and louder, and you realize that someone is approaching the door, so you take a few clumsy steps back and turn away, grabbing your keys out of your pocket and fumbling with the door diagonally across from Calleigh's, trying your best to hide in the shadows.

Calleigh's door swings open.

"I'm done with this conversation," snaps an angry voice that sounds remarkably like Jake's.

Thankfully, he doesn't recognize your back as he brushes past you toward the stairwell. Once he disappears around the corner, you hear the door closing quietly behind you. You exhale a sigh of relief, releasing a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, and place your keys back into your pockets.

"Eric?"

You jump, your heart racing, and turn around. Calleigh is standing in front of the closed door, her arms crossed, her cheeks slightly flushed, a half-amused, half-confused look on her face. You are surprised that she's dressed in the same outfit as before. You run your fingers through your hair, feeling yourself heat up in embarrassment. You sputter, grasping for words to explain the inexplicable.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"It's okay," she interrupts, betraying little emotion.

You look her up and down. "Are you—"

"I'm okay," she interrupts again, and you believe her, because if Jake had hurt her physically, he wouldn't have walked out of her apartment on two legs. But physically hadn't been what you had meant, and she knows this. She uncrosses her arms and reaches for her doorknob. "Come in." Her invitation is hesitant, the words falling from her lips like a warning.

You manage to shake your head. "No, I came at a bad time."

"Eric—"

"I'll see you at work in the morning," you say hurriedly, but you don't make any effort to move.

She watches you for a moment, then sighs and lets go of the doorknob. "Why are you here?"

You chuckle humorlessly. "I don't know."

She looks away. "Earlier, I told you that you could drop by anytime. If—"

"That's not why I'm here," you deny adamantly.

She doesn't look convinced, but accepts your denial. "Okay," she says with a slow nod. "But if—" Her eyes meet yours. Even in the darkness, you can tell that they are wet with unshed tears, which scares you more than anything. Through death, through disappointment, through betrayal, you have never seen Calleigh close to tears. "If I needed the same thing, would you—" She trails off and wraps her arms protectively around herself. Her lack of experience in asking for help becomes evident, as she squirms uncomfortably in the dark hallway.

You stare at her uncertainly. "Right now?" She doesn't respond, but pleads with you with her eyes. You swallow. "If Jake comes back, he'll get the wrong idea."

"I don't think he will," she replies slowly.

You scoff. "How could he not get the wrong idea?"

"No, Eric." She forces a smile and looks down the hall. "I don't think he'll come back."

"Oh." You are not sure if she means tonight or ever, but you take it as a small victory. Your triumph is short-lived, however, because you realize how much their argument is affecting her, and you feel an unfamiliar ache in your heart.

She returns her hand to her doorknob and twists it, pushing the door open. The light from within her apartment casts a beam of light onto one side of her body. You admire how beautiful she looks, but immediately, you feel a pang of guilt, and you have to remind yourself again that she is not yours.

From the doorway, she smiles. "Are you coming in or am I going to have to drag you?" she asks jokingly.

You are grateful for her light words; they ease the awkwardness of the moment. Still, you are too preoccupied to play along, so you follow her into her apartment wordlessly, closing the door behind you.

Under the full light, you finally get a good look at Calleigh. For the first time in a long time, she looks fragile. You want to ask her again if everything's all right, but the answer is clear to you, and you know that she hates it when people worry about her.

"I'm just going to—" She trails off, motioning toward what you remember to be her bathroom.

You watch her disappear and hear a door being clicked closed. You look around, taking in her apartment, refreshing your memory of the small details that have changed and the charm of the place, which has not.

You take a few tentative steps, stopping to rest your fingertips on furniture, or decorative pieces, if only to remind yourself that you are really here. The last time you remember being in Calleigh's home was a month after Speed's death. Somehow, it had seemed forlorn to show up at her door without Speed; the reminder of Tim's death hung too heavily in the air, and over time, despite your closeness, visits diminished.

You reach a bookshelf that you remember you had helped her put together. There are picture frames on one of the shelves and you lean down to study them. She has changed the pictures since the last time you were there. An updated one of Calleigh and her father, and a separate one with Calleigh and her mother. Calleigh and two of her brothers. Two little girls with golden blonde hair - her nieces, probably. Calleigh with two women you do not recognize - friends, extended relatives?

As soon as you glance at the last one, you have to close your eyes and take a deep breath, because you know what's coming. She hasn't changed this one. You open your eyes and lift the final frame off the shelf gingerly, flipping it in your hands as if expecting something to be on the back.

Speed. You. Calleigh. Three younger, happier faces caught in a momentary delight, oblivious to the pesky reporter who had sneaked a camera into the lab. The photographer had been charged, and his camera stripped of its memory stick, but he had apparently been skilled at his craft; the photo he had snapped of the three of you is flawless. Two caught in mid-laughter, the other giving a disapproving glare, but clearly more amused than annoyed. A joke, or maybe a prank; you can't remember. Regardless, it reminds you of a simpler time, when anything could be said or done without the calculated cautiousness that must be drizzled on recent conversations.

You feel a guilty satisfaction in the fact that you are in her pictures and Jake is not.

"What are you doing?" Calleigh's voice behind you is not accusatory, but curious.

You replace the frame on the shelf and turn to face her. "Nothing."

She cranes her neck and sees the photo you had been looking at. She walks over and stands beside you, picking up the same frame you had just put down. She smiles. "Do you remember that day?" she asks coyly.

"Not the specifics," you admit. You wonder if this is a side effect from your injury. "The only thing I remember is that we pissed off Speed pretty badly."

"The Townsend case from six years ago, remember?" she asks, looking up from the photo.

You frown. "The double homicide in that strip club?"

"No, you're thinking of the Thomson sisters," she replies, shaking her head. "Miriam Townsend was the stay-at-home mom who was poisoned by cyanide."

"Oh," you reply, even though you still have no idea who she's talking about.

"I miss that," she says quietly.

"Me too," you reply, taking the picture frame from her hands. You look at it for a moment more before placing it back on the shelf. "More than anything," you add needlessly.

She swallows. "Do you want anything to drink?"

You frown, because she has never asked that question before, only berated you for raiding her fridge. You have to fight the urge to shake her, ask her why she has to make this so difficult for you, but you sense that it's not much easier for her, so you sigh. "Yeah, I'll have a beer."

She nods and heads to her kitchen. You hear the fridge door open then close, glass bottles jingling against each other. She returns moments later, a beer bottle in each hand. She hands one to you. It's already open, so you bring it to your lips and down half of it, waiting for a buzz that never comes. She gives you a strange, almost sad look, and holds out the other bottle.

"I'm not an alcoholic, Calleigh," you say without giving it much thought, and you can tell that the words have hit her too close to home.

She withdraws the bottle and takes a quick sip from it, never taking her eyes off you. She moves to the couch and sits down. You follow, tentatively, carefully, and take a seat next to her, as far away as possible, but not far enough. Far enough where Calleigh is concerned, you have decided, is Jupiter. You sigh, watching her as she fiddles with her bottle, absentmindedly digging her nails under the sticker label.

"So what happened?" you ask, knowing that someone will have to speak up eventually. "With Jake," you clarify.

"We had a fight," she replies simply.

"Yeah, I could tell that much. About what?" you press.

She looks at you briefly, then leans back into her couch and takes another sip of beer. "His dad passed away a few hours ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you say immediately, and you mean it, because despite everything you despise about Jake, it's never easy to lose family. "Were they close?"

She nods. "His health had been deteriorating rapidly, which was why Jake wanted me to meet him, before he—" She trails off and closes her eyes. "I was supposed to go today."

"But you didn't, because you were with me at the cemetery," you say, taking another large gulp of beer.

"Yeah." She opens her eyes to look at you. "It's not your fault," she adds as an afterthought.

"It's not yours either," you reply.

She smiles tightly. "Jake seems to think so."

"Yeah, well, Jake's an idiot," you say, a little louder than you had anticipated.

"Eric," she warns.

You raise your arms in defeat, beer bottle swinging precariously from your hands. "Opinion."

She smiles and leans forward to place her own bottle on the coffee table. "It'll blow over," she says quietly. "It always does."

You frown, making no effort to mask your disappointment. "So this is where we stand," you say dryly.

"What do you mean?" she asks, even though you're pretty sure she knows exactly what you mean.

You chuckle humorlessly. "I'm supposed to be your rock every time you fight with Jake," you say bitterly, downing the rest of your beer. You stare expectantly at the empty bottle.

She frowns. "I didn't _ask_ you to come here."

"And I didn't _want_ to come in," you snap back.

"Oh, so you just show up at people's doors at three in the morning to say hello," she says crossly.

"Only yours," you reply instantly, your voice unconsciously hinting longing.

This seems to soften her up a little, and she sighs. "Can we just admit that we're both cranky from lack of sleep and call it a night?"

You ignore her and run your finger along the bottle, watching the droplets of condensation rolling slowly toward the bottom. "Hasn't his father already met you though?" you hear yourself asking. "From before."

She watches you for a moment. "No, actually," she replies, picking up her bottle again. "Our parents never knew we were—" She smiles tightly, looking away. "My Dad wouldn't have liked him."

"Smart man," you mutter under your breath.

"Eric…"

"I just don't understand why you put up with him," you say impatiently.

She reaches over to take your empty bottle away from you, replacing it with her nearly full one. You stare at the new bottle, at the corner of the label that she has overturned, and bring it to your lips. Even though you've shared drinks, food, even lip balm once, it's suddenly strangely sensual to drink from the same bottle that her lips have touched. You feel embarrassed for even letting the thought cross your mind, but it's too late to dismiss.

"Jake and I have history," she answers finally, snapping you out of your reverie.

"You had history with John Hagen. Look where that brought you." You regret your words the moment they leave your lips. Your pride prevents you from apologizing, although you doubt that even an apology can mend the damage done by those purposely-hurtful words.

She presses her lips into a straight line, and her eyes flare. You look away and bury your face into your hands, unable to watch her reaction, and the cold neck of the beer bottle presses against your temple. You know you've crossed the line, and you know you've injured her with your careless choice of topic. You expect that as soon as she regains her composure, she will ask you to leave. Politely but firmly. _I think you should leave_. You know her well enough to know that the span of her patience can be measured by the length of her sentences. _You should leave_. If you've hit a particularly sensitive nerve, which you imagine you certainly have tonight, you'll get a calm _leave_ through her teeth.

Your eyes closed in your palms, you wait.

She doesn't speak for a long time, and she is so quiet that for a moment, you think she has left the room. When you look up, however, she is still sitting beside you, the empty bottle dangling between her fingers. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, barely even _breathes_.

Finally, you can't bear the silence anymore. You slam the bottle onto her coffee table, and a few drops of beer splash across the glass surface of the table. You ignore them and stand, if only to bring motion to the room.

"Where are you going?" Her voice holds something you can't recognize. Need? It's not desire and it certainly isn't passion, but whatever it is, it doesn't suit Calleigh's soothing Southern tone. It's unfamiliar and awkward and everything you wish your relationship with Calleigh wasn't.

You give her a slightly disbelieving look. "Don't you want me to leave?" You are testing her, and you sense that she knows this.

"No."

"No?"

She hesitates this time, but her answer is the same. "No."

"No, you don't want me to leave, or no, you disagree with your first no?" You are purposely being an ass, but you can't stop yourself. Hurt or be hurt.

She sighs in defeat. "I don't need this right now, Eric."

"What _do_ you need?" you ask quietly.

The question catches her off guard, and you can almost see the barriers reshaping around her body.

You chuckle humorlessly. "That's what I thought," you say dryly. You take a deep breath and head toward the door.

"I need you to stay here tonight," she says softly, so softly that for a moment, you think your sleep deprivation is finally catching up to you. Another figment of your imagination, just like the belief that the two of you will overcome the obstacles, just like the belief that _one day_ comes in this lifetime.

But she's looking at you with piercing green eyes, pleading, though she's always been too proud to plead, revealing, though she's always been too cautious to reveal.

You sigh, falling back onto the couch, because suddenly, your legs are too weak to support your weight. "Calleigh, I can't do that," you say, even though you know that not only can you do that, you want to, but logic dictates that you maintain distance.

"Why not?" she asks stubbornly. "How many times have you slept on this couch?"

"It's different now," you reply pointedly.

"Why?" she presses.

"Because I can't lie here and pretend like I don't know what you and _Jake_ do in _there_ every day," you snap, referring to her bedroom. The words, even from your own lips, sting, and you can feel the jealousy consuming you.

"We haven't—"

"I really don't care," you interrupt dismissively, snatching the beer bottle off the coffee table and taking a swig. Two beers would do nothing, you know, but it is something to do, something to distract you from her and everything you want to say and do to her.

She sighs in frustration, and you can tell that you are doing a great job of riling her up. "Eric," she says, her voice remarkably calm, "by the time you get home, it'll be past four."

"Yeah, but at least I'll get a few hours of shuteye, whereas if I stay here, I'm going to spend the whole night thinking about you lying half naked under the covers one room over." You don't realize until you're finished speaking that you had been shouting and that her windows are open and that it's _Calleigh_ you're shouting at. "It kills me that I can't wake up next to you in the morning," you finish quietly.

Maybe the alcohol really is having an effect, you think to yourself, because saying that hadn't felt like a death sentence. It had been liberating, and even if she whips out her gun and leaves you in the middle of her living room in a pool of your own blood, at least she knows what she does to you. And if the fragment of bullet still lodged in your temporal lobe suddenly shifts and causes massive hemorrhaging in your brain, at least she knows that it's about more than just trust and working together and an irrational jealousy.

It's about her.

She's staring at you now, and you can't tell if she's horrified or disgusted, maybe both, but the only thing you can process is that she's not shocked, not at all surprised by your wording and your phraseology and all those stupid little things they teach you about presenting evidence and testifying in court that become useless the moment you get up there.

"I'm sorry," she says finally, almost mechanically.

Her words feel like a huge slap on the face, because even after you've made your intentions clear, she hasn't said anything that really _matters_. "What does—" You swallow, feeling a lump in your throat. "What do you—" You trail off again and frown, because two beers have never done this to you before, made you so useless and incoherent, but then you realize that it's from a different kind of intoxication. You take a deep breath. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean, this doesn't change the fact that we work together," she replies quietly, looking everywhere but at you.

You chuckle mirthlessly. "I guess I'm wasting my time then, because if you really wanted this, you wouldn't give a damn about professionalism," you say, finishing your beer – or her beer – and dropping the bottle on the coffee table with a loud clang.

"No, _you_ don't give a damn about professionalism," she corrects indignantly. "I do."

"So this is it," you say with a suffocating finality.

She doesn't say anything, only stands and reaches for you. She pulls you up with her, and you let her, even though you're upset that she's still acting like you haven't made this huge declaration. Without warning, her arms are around your neck, her cheek resting against your chest. Instinctively, you snake your arms around her waist and breathe in the scent of her hair.

But it's not a hug, more like a desperate stranglehold. Although not as palpable as speech, you hear her unspoken words. She buries her face into your shirt, lips resting over your heart. You've hugged her before, of course, but never like this, never with blatant implications resting heavily on your hearts.

You respect her too much to do anything inappropriate, especially because you know that even after tonight, she still feels loyalty toward Jake, and you know that she'd castrate you if you tried anything that crossed the line. So you rest your fingers loosely on the small of her back, holding her for as long as she will let you. You can tell that she smells the beer in your breath, knows that the last thing she needs to do is provoke you when you're less than fully lucid, that tonight, she has to be even more rational than usual, more careful.

She is, because only moments after she pulls you toward her, she shoves you backwards, hard, and this sobers you up, clears your head somewhat, at least enough to head toward the door. She follows you, knows this is goodbye for the night or the morning or whatever the hell time of the day it is.

At the door, she stops you and pins you against the wall, gently, so that you can escape and slip out the door if you really wanted to. But she knows you won't, and you don't, you _can't_, not when she's pressed against you like this. You want to kiss her so badly, but she's hiding her lips from you, because she knows that you won't be able to stop there, and maybe, just maybe, you think to yourself, she knows that she can't either.

Holding her like this feels like goodbye, not just for now but forever.

"Is it too late?" you hear yourself asking.

"It's never too late," she murmurs. She smiles then, small and hidden. You detect a hint of hope.

She lifts herself off you and opens her door. You step out.

"See you in a few hours," she says softly. She smiles again and closes the door.

Standing outside her apartment door, you realize that it's already the tomorrow she spoke of yesterday, the tomorrow that you had been so afraid of.

Tomorrow is not too late.

_"Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.  
The important thing is not to stop questioning."_  
–_Albert Einstein_


End file.
